


Tasting the Storm

by waterofthemoon



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, F/F, Face-Sitting, Fluff, Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex During a Thunderstorm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:08:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24962800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterofthemoon/pseuds/waterofthemoon
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley get caught in a rainstorm. Back at the bookshop, they can't keep their hands off each other.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 142





	Tasting the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> It's my birthday, and I've been feeling very sapphic lately, so wives porn for all! ♥♥♥

They're out for a stroll around the neighborhood when the sky opens up above them and soaks them with rainwater. Aziraphale shrieks and presses closer to Crowley; Crowley grabs her hand and runs with her all the way back to the bookshop. By the time they get there, they're laughing and breathless, and rain streams in rivulets over them both.

They probably look like fools. Crowley's in love, so she doesn't care, and anyway, most of Soho has already seen them being ridiculous over each other. They're practically an institution.

Inside the bookshop, Aziraphale frets over the puddles on the floor and the state of her wool skirt, while Crowley wrings out her hair and tries not to ogle Aziraphale's breasts in her translucent blouse too obviously.

"Take it off and lay it out to dry," Crowley suggests. "It'll be good as new; you know it will, if you have anything to say about it." When Aziraphale hesitates, she adds, hopefully, "We've got to get out of these things anyway—I'm wet through."

Aziraphale glances up and huffs when she catches Crowley's eyes on her. "You're _incorrigible_." It's paired with a smile and a kiss, so Crowley doesn't mind that at all. "Very well, then. Upstairs with you, you fiend."

Crowley snaps her fingers and lays down towels on the wood floor. It won't dare warp, but an ounce of prevention, she supposes, and it gets Aziraphale to relax. Giddy, she follows Aziraphale up the spiral suitcase to her tiny bedroom.

The rain is louder up here; it pounds on the roof, comes down in sheets Crowley can see cascading down the windows. She only looks for a moment, though, because Aziraphale is there with her and fiddling with the clasp to her skirt.

"Here, let me." She crowds up behind Aziraphale and takes over the clasp and zipper, then slides the skirt down Aziraphale's legs, letting her knuckles skim those gorgeous hips and thighs. With a gallant flourish, she lays it over the clothes horse. "There we are. Fuck, you're beautiful."

Aziraphale stands in front of her, still half-dressed in her wet clothes, a small, pleased smile playing across her face as she fluffs out her white curls with one hand and tugs at her bow tie and blouse with the other. Her pale blue, lacy panties just barely peek out under the hem. Crowley groans and has to shut her eyes for a moment to spare herself, then opens them again because she doesn't want to miss anything.

"Have mercy on your demon," Crowley says. She starts pulling at her own clothes. "Get it all off, come on. I can't take another minute without my mouth on you."

The buttons of her black blouse easily come away—and Aziraphale definitely returns the heavy-lidded staring as she shrugs it off her shoulders—but there's nothing to be done for her jeans, tight and sodden as they are. Crowley waves them away with an impatient miracle instead. She's rewarded with Aziraphale lifting her up and depositing her on the bed. The antique springs let out a squeal of protest when Aziraphale, still in her underthings, lands on top of her and applies her lips to Crowley's throat and shoulder.

"Fuck, _yes_." Crowley arches up against her and captures one of Aziraphale's breasts in her mouth, the nipple swelling into a glorious peak through the old-fashioned lace of her bra, and shamelessly ruts up against Aziraphale's plush thigh. Crowley wasn't kidding about being wet—she feels like she's already dripping from the inside out, desperate and longing. Aziraphale just has that effect on her.

"Mmmm." Aziraphale nibbles at the spot behind her ear that always gets Crowley going. "You taste like the storm."

The thunder obligingly rolls across the sky, and Crowley huffs out a laugh. "Not surprising, that. _You_ taste _fantastic_." She plucks at Aziraphale's waistband and draws two fingers up between her legs, teasing her through the fabric, already damp with Aziraphale's need. "Let me eat you out, angel. I bet your cunt is even better."

Aziraphale sighs with pleasure at the touch, a sound Crowley always wants more of. She moves Aziraphale's panties aside and rubs her clit. Sometimes she can get Aziraphale to come just from that, but not today, because Aziraphale seizes her wrist.

"Kiss me," Aziraphale demands, and Crowley obliges.

They get a bit lost in making out, which also isn't surprising. Somewhere in the middle of Crowley re-mapping Aziraphale's mouth, Aziraphale makes a frustrated noise and banishes their underwear to the other side of the room, and Crowley groans when Aziraphale's slow grind against her body suddenly comes with a whole lot more sensation.

"Now?" Crowley asks.

Aziraphale nods. " _Please_ , Crowley, oh…."

They switch positions so that Aziraphale's the one on her back, propped up amongst the pillows with such a look of adoration and lust on her face that Crowley can't actually deal with it, even though her expression probably isn't much better. She presses kisses to Aziraphale's belly and thighs instead, then settles between her legs and parts Aziraphale's lips.

The first taste is always the sweetest—angel musk and salt and just a hint of tartness, and yes, something of the rain there today as well. Crowley sucks on Aziraphale's clit, licks her from top to bottom, fucks Aziraphale with her fingers and tongue, all to the rhythm of the pounding storm outside.

She _loves_ doing this—loves the way Aziraphale clenches around her, the way she wails when Crowley gets it just right, the way her cunt gushes when she comes. Loves the taste and smell and _feel_ of it, loves knowing that she's the only one who gets to have Aziraphale like this, stripped down and taken apart, with Aziraphale's hand in her hair and Aziraphale's body parted before her.

Aziraphale comes twice on Crowley's tongue, moaning and clenching sweetly, with such a sigh of fucked-out bliss that Crowley nearly comes herself. Crowley's more than happy to take her to a third and starts trying to ramp her up again through the aftershocks, but Aziraphale fumbles at her in the way that means she's had enough for now.

"Mmmmm, oh, that was good. You were magnificent, darling." Aziraphale's eyes, when Crowley looks up, are soft and wet, and her smile has turned positively beatific. "Come here."

Crowley climbs up the bed into Aziraphale's arms. Aziraphale kisses her for a few minutes, clearly savoring the taste of herself in Crowley's mouth, then taps Crowley's hip.

"Come _all_ the way up, if you please," Aziraphale says. "I don't believe I can move after that, so you'll have to sit on my face." As if this is somehow a hardship for Crowley, and not both incredibly hot and a goal to aspire to. Crowley's bursting with pride, honestly.

She gets a hold of herself long enough to move up the bed while Aziraphale wiggles down, and then she kneels over Aziraphale's face. Once in position, Crowley spreads her legs and grips the wooden headboard, hoping it doesn't crack under her hands like last time, and lets Aziraphale have her.

Aziraphale is obscene enough when she eats, and even more so when she's got Crowley in her mouth. Crowley arches and moans under the onslaught of Aziraphale's tongue, grinds down onto Aziraphale's face when Aziraphale grabs her hips, closes her eyes and loses herself in the sensations. Every nerve ending she has is centered on her clit, in her cunt, in the live wire that is her skin as she comes with a wail, definitely breaking the headboard, and then comes _again_ when Aziraphale doesn't stop, just keeps working her over until she's spent and collapsing backward onto Aziraphale's belly.

"No more," Crowley mumbles into Aziraphale's soft skin. "I live here now. You've discorporated me." The thunder rumbles outside; Crowley feels it in her cunt, an echoing aftershock.

"You're very dramatic," Aziraphale remarks, but she helps Crowley up and gets her rearranged the other direction, so they're facing again. Aziraphale's face is slick and shiny, and Crowley swipes her tongue across to lick it off before Aziraphale scrunches her nose and miracles the rest of their mess away.

"Says you." Crowley kisses Aziraphale—a lazy, sleepy thing, that kiss, no heat left in it at all—and snuggles down somewhere around Aziraphale's middle, pillowed just below her breasts. She presses her lips to the nearest breast, too, for good measure. Aziraphale wraps an arm around her and strokes her damp, tangled hair.

The rain continues to drum on the rooftop and stream down the windows, and Crowley lets it lull her into comfort and security, wrapped up as she is in her angel.


End file.
